


Father of Mine

by Ariella1941



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariella1941/pseuds/Ariella1941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inside Wesley's mind during the events of the second season Angel episode "Untouched"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father of Mine

"What is she doing?" Cordelia says as I sit reading in an attempt to bone up on Bethany's gift of telekinesis, and ways of containing it if necessary.

"They're talking, yes?" I note absently as my eyes skim a passage about possible traumas that could cause manifestations of such potency.

Cordelia lets out a sigh of disgust that I am all too used to hearing, "There's something. She's got a vibe. I'm getting a vibe. She's vibey."

"I didn't notice a vibe," I say as I suppress any urge to tell my favorite resident seer she's insane. I'm fond of Cordelia, truly I am, but these rants of hers tend to make me want to strangle her, especially when I'm trying to work on something having to do with our job. I make the valiant effort to ignore her, as she continues on:

"...Women and sex, it's not like you guys. We see more levels."

The words are out her mouth for less than a second, when realization strikes. And I force myself to look up.

No, I don't want to believe it. As I flip back the page to the passage on traumas, I search, praying that my growing suspicion is wrong. Nausea wells up as I read over the passage a second and even a third time. Only distantly do I hear Cordelia ask if I'm listening to her. It would certainly make sense, but how do I get Bethany to confront it?

By playing the bad guy...   
    
 

* * * * *

"...I shouldn't even be here," I hear her say to Angel. The fear and desperation in her voice fill the courtyard. She seems too fragile, and now I am about to shatter that fragility with a hammer. God forgive me. I can't even warn Angel without giving myself away. There's no time, she seems ready to run and we'd lose our chance to help her.

"I agree." I put on the impassive mask of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Watcher, as I stand at the top of the stairs, but my heart bleeds for this poor girl. Now that I know what I'm looking for, the signs of abuse are obvious: the way she carries herself, the way the clothing hangs from her in some vain hope of not being noticed, and how she shrinks from human contact. Even her earlier comment about the 'family business' is telling to a professional, or someone who's been there.

"It's clear the girl doesn't want our help. I don't think we should be wasting our time with her," My voice sounds cold and almost foreign to my own ears, but there's something familiar about it as well...I try not to think about it as I stride down the stairs. Angel is as surprised as Bethany at my vehemence, but I press on even against Angel attempts to silence me, "I'm sorry," I say, truly meaning it but not for the reasons they think, as I lean against the railing, looking down at him sitting on the bench avoiding my eyes, "but there are people out there who need us." I turn to glare at Bethany. "People with much more serious problems than impulse control issues."

"Wesley, that's enough!" I hear Angel say, but I pay him no heed.

"Why doesn't she go back to her friends? Toss the furniture about?" I go on coldly as I advance on her. I can see the fear in her eyes as I close, and it takes all my strength to stay the course as I look down at her. "Maybe we should send you home to your father."

I hit the far wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. I look up to see Bethany's profile, the fear from her eyes is now horror etched along every line of her face, and tears race down her cheeks. Tears that I caused.   
 

* * * * *

"You're sure nothing's broken," Cordelia says to me in that tone she seems to reserve for when she thinks I've done something idiotic. I find myself checking my right arm as she puts a cold compress on the back of my neck, and I manage to mutter some type of affirmation. "Nothing at all? Say, your brain?" She sighs at my obvious stupidity. "What happened to approach her with caution?"

"I'd given her time to get her defenses up..." I try to say, but Cordelia interrupts:

"She wouldn't be crying, you wouldn't be bruised, and Angel wouldn't of had a near melba toast experience!" she accuses. "What did you say to her?"

I look down unable to meet Cordelia's eyes, ashamed of what I'd done. "I mentioned her father." Yes, I mentioned her father, and became mine.

"Well, who's her father?"

"No, it's..."  I look up, still avoiding her, "The sort of trauma that can produce this level of psychic power usually involves abuse of some kind, very early on." Mastering my own turmoil, I finally manage to meet Cordelia's eyes. "You mentioned a sexual vibe. She made that crack about 'family business'. Statistically speaking, the father was the best guess." I leave out my own experiences with abusive fathers. It would only complicate matters, and Cordelia doesn't need to know. If I have my way, neither she nor Angel ever will.

"There's not enough yuck in the world." She says with disgust, but this time it's not directing it at me. Footsteps cause my gaze to turn to the doorway. Angel stands there, his face cold and unreadable.

"How is she?" Cordelia asks.

"Settling," Angel replies, his voice sounding agitated. "You're gone," he says looking directing at me.

Surprisingly, Cordelia rises to my defense. "You can't fire Wesley! I'll quit too!" she states with such conviction then wavers, "Unless you're firm." If the situation were less grim I might actually laugh. That's our Cordelia for you. My eyes lock on Angel's, and I can only hope he senses my understanding.

"I'm not firing anybody," he says.

"I understand. My presence here won't exactly help her to feel trusting." I stand up and get ready to leave, "I'll be at my flat. Call me if..." I don't shrug, but it's there in my voice. There's no reason for them to call me. I've done damage, again, and now must let Angel and Cordelia fix it. The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.

I walk past Angel, who doesn't look up at me, but he says, "It helps that we know." There's concession in his voice, and possibly some apology for his harshness. Not that he'd said anything I wasn't already thinking.

I can only reply, "I hope so," and head home.   
    
 

* * * * *

48 hours later

I wake screaming. My nightmares have been worse now than at any other point since I've been in Los Angeles. Not even the Ethros demon... Not even Faith provoked them as much as my own actions with Bethany. I reach quickly for the light on my bedside table. It comes on driving away the external gloom, but the darkness inside remains. 'It needed to be done' has become my mantra, but still I hate myself.

I get up, shoving the covers away, and go to splash some cold water on my face. As I look into the mirror I see my father's face. He's there in my own, more evident than ever.  He stares back at me with a cold harshness, and I can almost hear his voice:

"Wesley, this is for your own good."

He'd say that to me as he'd lock me under the stairs for some infraction. His voice as heartless as mine was to Bethany. Or it might be the dreaded: "Wesley, you're a great disappointment." Or any variation on a thousand cutting remarks.

I swore I'd never be like him, but maybe I can't help it. The last few days have been a torturous re-evaluation of my life, and I see how I've become my father. Becoming a Watcher. My scorning Giles' treatment of Buffy. My failure to get through to Faith and resorting to force.  And now Bethany.  I think maybe the only noble thing I did was when I went back to help Buffy and Giles against Council orders.

Maybe I should just give up.

There's an insistent knocking on the door, and I go to pull on some clothing, calling out that I'll be right with whomever it is. I am surprised to find Bethany standing there, with Angel behind her. What's even more surprising is the small smile on her face. She's changed. It's obvious in her eyes.

"Wesley," she says in a slightly hesitant voice, "Angel thought it'd be a good idea for us to stop by before I leave." I finally notice the suitcase she's carrying.

"Leave?" I ask in comical confusion.

"Yeah, I'm going well... Somewhere safe," she shrugs, looking slightly uncomfortable, "I just... I understand now. I mean about what you said, and I know you didn't mean it."

My voice catches in my throat for a moment before I finally manage to say, "You're kind to say so, but I should still apologize."

Bethany shakes her head, "No, but thanks. Well, I better go. Bye."

Angel nods at me as they walk away, and I watch them go. Finally, I close the door, and as I go back to the mirror I realize something: I'm not my father. The abuse never hurt him, only me. He never had nightmares about his actions. I once heard him tell an associate he slept the 'sleep of the just.' The oath Watchers take were just words to him, a way to power and prestige. The innocent he had dedicated himself to protecting were such a distant faceless concept he never saw it in his own son. But I see it. I see their pain and suffering every day, and I can't pretend it's not there.  All of these things are reasons I can't give up. There are still far too many Bethanys in the world, and far too many Wesley Wyndham-Pryces as well. I can't save them all, but I can try.

 

* * *

 


End file.
